  With a high hand Joyce carried the matter through. She ignored opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. She arranged for a return of Orienta for the experiments on the following evening, and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms. Beatrice Faulkner expressed herself guardedly. “I don’t care what revelations come,” she said, “except as they affect you people here. It doesn’t seem to me that that woman can say anything to make me think either Joyce or Natalie committed the crime, but I don’t want her to say anything that will make either of them uncomfortable.” “If she does, there’ll be trouble,” declared Barry, gloomily. “I feel as you do, and I want to try her on any ordinary subject first——” “But we are going to do that,” put in Natalie. “I’m crazy to see the whole performance, but I’m scared, too. I wish Joyce would promise not to go on with it if any one of us doesn’t like it.” “She won’t promise that,” said Beatrice. “Joyce is bound to see it through. I don’t know what she expects from it, but she has no fear, that’s certain.” Orienta had stipulated that the sÉance take place in the studio, saying that the influences of the place would go far toward producing favourable conditions for her. So they awaited her there, at the appointed time, and within a few minutes of the hour she arrived. Pausing in the hall to lay off her wraps, Orienta then glided into the great room where her group of auditors were assembled. This time she wore a robe of dark green, as full and flowing as the white one. There was no suggestion of Greek drapery, but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would have been hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand. “May I look at it?” said Natalie, as they sat a moment, before beginning the sÉance. “Certainly. It is my talisman,—my charm. Without it, I could do nothing.” “Really? How wonderful!” and the girl looked earnestly at the carven stone. “Your power is occult, then?” “I think it must be. Yet I would not be classed with the people who go by the general title of mediums. They are, usually, frauds.” Orienta made this statement simply, as if speaking of some matter unconnected with her own work or claims. She gave the impression that if fraudulent “mediums” wished to impose upon the gullible public, it was of no interest to her, but she declined to be considered one of them. And so secure was she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary to emphasise or insist upon it. “What is your wish?” she asked, at length. “Will you try me first on some outside matters or shall we proceed at once to the question of the mystery we seek to solve?” Just then Robert Roberts was announced. “What shall we do?” exclaimed Natalie. “Tell him to come some other time?” “No,” said Joyce, “let him come in here with us. You don’t mind, do you, Madame Orienta?” “No; why should I? Who is he?” “The detective who is working on the case.” Orienta shrugged her shoulders. “Of course it matters not to me. But are you sure you want him to know what I may reveal? It may incriminate——” “I don’t care who may be incriminated!” exclaimed Joyce. “I want to find out a few things. As a matter of fact, I asked Mr. Roberts to come.” Natalie turned pale. Had Joyce laid a trap? And for whom? What might they not learn before the evening was over? Bobsy entered, and was duly presented to the visitor. He was courteous, but unmistakably curious. “What may I call you?” he asked, as he bowed before her. “Priestess, if you please,” she returned. “I refuse to be called a medium or a seeress or even a clairvoyant. I am these things, but the titles have been so misused that I claim only to be a Priestess of the Occult. This is no academic title, I simply name myself a priestess of the cult I express and follow.” “Priestess, I greet you,” said Bobsy, and to those who knew him a shade of mockery might be detected in his tone. But it was the merest hint and quite unobservable to the one he addressed. In most decorous manner he took a place in the group, and Joyce announced the plan she had in mind. “First,” she said, “we will have an exhibition of Oriental powers. We will follow her instructions and she will give us a showing of her methods and her feats. Then,—if I say so,—we will proceed to try the other experiment.” “It is well,” said the Priestess. “Remember, please, I make no claims to magic or to witchcraft. I have, within myself, some inexplicable, some mysterious power that enables me to see clairvoyantly through material substances. I have also an occult power which allows me to see happenings at a distance or in the past as if they were transpiring here and now. These two powers are at your disposal, but further than that I cannot go. I cannot answer questions, unless they come within the range of the two conditions I have mentioned to you just now. I cannot read the future or tell fortunes. I can only see what is shown to me, and if I disappoint you, I cannot help it. Now let us proceed. I will ask you each to write a question on a slip of paper and enclose it in an envelope. Sign your name to your question and seal the envelope securely.” “Old stuff,” said Bobsy Roberts to Barry, in a low whisper. But Barry shook his head. He would not commit himself until the experiment was over. “Will you get some paper and envelopes?” asked Orienta. “Any sort will do.” Barry rose and went to the desk nearest to him. There was a small paper pad, and in a pigeon-hole were several small envelopes. “Will these do?” he asked. “Any kind will do,” said Orienta, wearily, rather than petulantly. Bobsy looked at her closely. Surely she wasn’t at all particular about the materials used. He must watch carefully for hocus pocus, if he was to discover any. “Ink or pencil?” said Barry. “It doesn’t matter,” and Orienta was almost irritated now. “I’m not doing legerdemain tricks, with prepared paraphernalia!” Barry, a little embarrassed, picked up a pencil, but in trying it, broke off its point. So he took ink, and wrote on the top slip of the pad a short question. This he tore off and passed the pad to Joyce. At last, each had written a question, signed the slip, tucked it in an envelope and sealed the envelope. Also each put a small private mark on the outside of his or her envelope to distinguish it again. “Collect them, Mr. Roberts, please,” said Orienta, with a gentle smile. Bobsy put the five envelopes in a little pack and held them. “Now,” said Orienta, “I propose to read these questions in the dark and without opening the envelopes. It is no trick, as you can readily see for yourselves, but I must ask you to sit quietly and not ask questions until I have finished. Then ask whatever you choose. If you please, Mr. Roberts, hand me the envelopes, and then turn off the lights. Or, stay, turn off the lights first, that there may be no chance of my seeing even a mark on the outside.” Bobsy did exactly as directed. Orienta sat in a large chair, facing the others, who sat in a row before her. The lights were arranged so that Bobsy might turn off all at the main switch, save one small table light, which would give him opportunity to regain his seat, and then this could be also turned off. With everybody raptly watching, Roberts, holding the envelopes, turned off the lights. The room was dark, save for the one shaded lamp glowing on a small table. Then he handed the lot of sealed envelopes to Orienta, who took them in a hand-clasp that precluded her seeing any detail of them. In another second, Bobsy had taken his seat, and snapped off the last small light. The room was in perfect darkness. Barry’s hand stole out and clasped Natalie’s, but otherwise there was no movement on the part of any one. Not a second seemed to have passed before Orienta’s soft voice was heard. “I will read the questions,” she said, “in the order they were given me. This is the first: ‘Who is Goldenheart?’ It is signed Joyce Stannard. This is the answer, as my mind sees it. A woman sitting on a rocky seat near a rushing brook or river. There is a man near her. He bends above her, and speaks endearing words. He calls her Marie, she calls him Eric. She is small and pale. Her hair is Titian red. Though not beautiful, she is attractive in a pathetic way. Ah, the vision is gone.” As the low voice ceased, there was a slight rustle as of some one about to speak. “No questions, please,” said Orienta, “unless you want this experiment to stop right here. I will now read the contents of the next envelope. This is, ‘Who marred my etched picture?’ signed Natalie Vernon. My mind sees the artist who made it, himself scratching it. He is in a fury. It is because he does not feel satisfied with his own work. He mutters, ‘Not right! no, not right, yet!’ There is no one with him. He is alone. The vision fades.” Orienta paused, and gave a little soft sigh, as if exhausted. But in a moment she spoke again. “You know,” she said, “if you prefer to have the lights, it doesn’t matter at all to me. I read these in the dark because I think if the room were lighted you might suppose I saw the message in some way by means of my physical eyes. It is not so, but if you prefer the light, turn it on.” “I do,” cried Roberts, and before any one could object, he snapped on the table light and then the main key which flooded the big room with illumination. Orienta smiled. “I thought you were sceptical, Mr. Roberts,” she said. And then, as if his doubts were of little consequence, she said, “Shall I proceed?” Joyce nodded, but she shot a gleam of annoyance and reproof at Bobsy Roberts, who looked a little crestfallen, but determined to take no chances. Orienta picked up the next envelope. She had laid aside on a table the two she had read. She did not look at the envelope she now held, but looked straight at Roberts, as if to convince him of her honesty. “This is signed Beatrice Faulkner, and it says, ‘Where are the lost jewels?’ My mind sees this picture. The jewels, not lost, but safely hidden. They are in a strong box, not a safe, more like a metal-bound trunk. I cannot tell where this box is, but it is in a bare place, like a store room or safety place of some sort. The vision goes.” “May we speak?” asked Natalie, eagerly. “Not yet, please,” and the Priestess smiled at her. “May I not have my conditions complied with?” “Keep still, Natalie,” said Barry. “Let her have fair play.” “This is Mr. Stannard’s question,” and Orienta held another envelope in her long fingers, “‘Would it not be wiser not to attempt to solve the mystery, but to hush up the whole matter?’ My mind sees a picture. It is vague, there is no detail, but it is bright and beautiful. There are fair flowers and soft colours. They shift, like a kaleidoscope, but always rosy and lovely. It means, yes, it would be better to give up trying to solve the riddle. “And now,” Orienta spoke in a distinctly scornful voice, “there is but one more, Mr. Roberts’ envelope. In it he has written, ‘Are you a fraud?’ I answer this as carefully as I do the others. My mind shows me myself, and I see my honest attempts to do my duty and to read aright. No, I am not a fraud. That is all.” “For shame, Mr. Roberts!” cried Joyce, angrily. “I am sorry I asked you here to-night, and I will now ask that you go away. I am more than interested in Orienta’s work, I am enthralled, and I refuse to have it interrupted or interfered with by your unjust suspicions and rude behaviour! Please go away, and let us continue our experiments in peace.” “Oh, Mrs. Stannard, please let me stay,” begged the penitent Bobsy; “I’ll be good, I promise you. You see, I’m so interested in the thing, I wrote that to test it, and Madame Orienta came through with flying colours. If you will let me remain, I promise not to offend again, in any particular.” Bobsy had a way with him, and Orienta herself smiled a little as she said, “Let him stay. I’m glad to convince him.” So Bobsy staid. Then Barry proposed that they try the same test over again, but without signing their papers. “Thus,” he said, “we will feel more free to ask what we choose.” Orienta agreed, and again each wrote a question, and sealed it in an envelope. “Seal them with wax, if you wish,” said the Priestess, smiling at Bobsy. “I see there is a sealing set right there on the desk.” So Bobsy and Natalie sealed their envelopes, and stamped them with their rings. “I won’t do that,” said Joyce, “it’s too silly. We all know there’s no trick in it.” “Shall I read these in the dark or in the light?” asked Orienta, as Bobsy held the five missives toward her. “Why not as you did before?” said Beatrice, “part of them in darkness and part in light. I think those read in the dark even more wonderful than in the light.” “So do I,” agreed Joyce. “But we’ll try both ways. Which first?” “You may choose,” said the Priestess. “Dark, then,” replied Joyce. So again the room was made totally dark, and immediately came Orienta’s soft, velvety tones. “‘Will what I fear ever happen?’” she read slowly. Then she sighed, “I cannot say, my child.” Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie, although the question had not been signed. “I hope not,—I think not,—but the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades.” They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject, and the next one would ensue. With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on: “‘What can I do to help?’” No hint was needed, for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner’s question. The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: “Nothing more than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated.” “The rest in the light?” asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently. “If you choose,” returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics. Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark. “‘Am I doing right?’” she read. For an instant the long lashes on the cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at Joyce. “Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have planned.” A look of contentment passed over Joyce’s face. She showed intense relief, and oblivious to the others’ curious glances she drew a long sigh and relaxed in her chair. Clearly, it made no difference to Orienta that the questions were not signed. She knew at once who wrote each. Next came Barry’s. Still with her eyes closed, she held it out toward him, and read, “‘Will the truth ever be known?’” There was a perceptible pause before she said, “You do not want it known, because you fear it. But your secret is safe. That, at least, will never be known.” Bobsy Roberts listened attentively. So Barry Stannard had a secret. Pshaw! Not necessarily because this faker said so! And yet, was she a faker? Bobsy looked at her. He himself had put those sealed envelopes into that long, inert hand. There they were still, intact, seals unbroken, and the reader paying no more attention to them than as if they were so much blank paper. Whatever her power, it was superhuman. No physical vision could read through those opaque envelopes, or if such sight might be, it could not operate in total darkness. No, there was no chance for trickery. It was a supernatural gift of some sort. His own envelope came last. He had boldly written, “Who killed Eric Stannard?” a question no one else had felt like putting down in crude words. Orienta read it, her hand clasped over the envelope and her eyes closed. “At last,” she murmured, in a strained, whispering voice, “at last we come to the vital question. It matters not who wrote it, it is what each one wanted to write. Shall I answer?” There was silence. Orienta opened her eyes and cast a slow glance around. |
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